Horn Calls Through the Forest
by Ephemeron
Summary: MWPP. An allegorical piece. Meant to be possessed of a disembodied dream-like quality. The genre isn't really accurate, but it was the closest I could come...


A/N: Is this a poemfic? I don't really know, and truthfully, feel no desire to classify it as such, or even, anything else. The characters I write about are not mine. The basic storyline that this either took its inspiration from or is based on is also not mine; it is J. K. Rowling's… Or maybe they are not anyone's. I don't know. The myth, which I incorporate that story with, is not mine either; it belongs to either some unknown Ancient Greek guy, or perhaps the god that inspired him, or to the collective unconscious. (Bonus points to the one who can guess which myth it is!) The sporadic poems belong to Emily Dickinson, or again, to the collective unconscious. In fact, maybe that's the answer. Maybe everything belongs to the collective unconscious and thus there is no use for stupid disclaimers like this one. 

Thank you for listening to my pointless rant. 

**_The woman got up, and surveyed her work. Strands of silken thread were criss-crossed and stretched taut across a round frame, forming a pearly web. She nodded, and traced a single thread with one twisted, ancient finger. It glowed. She kept tracing, her finger still on the strand. Other strings glowed, and soon, the entire web was glowing. The woman smiled and pushed back her long hair. _**

_**She smiled, and stroked the silver bow that she held.**_

**

~***~

**

The stag bent his head down low and drank from the waters. The soft black mud gave beneath his feet. There were prints left in the mud, left in its darkness as he lifted up his head, droplets decorating his muzzle like stars. He tilted his head back to savor the cool, bracing evening air, smelling of earth and salt grass and water. The moon was a tiny hoof-dent in the blackness, then no more as a cloud moved across it, hiding it. The stag reveled in the world, in the mere sensation of being alive and standing there, with his sturdy legs, the wind flowing through his robust chest heaving with every breath, the proud arch of his neck, his antlers silhouetted stark against the blackness.

Somewhere, a horn sounded, dogs rallied to its cry. He could almost laugh. The chase was on, and he would canter softly over the salt grass, his hooves barely touching the ground. Nary a sound his feet made, or a stalk he bent. He would elude his pursuers like an impish spirit; baffle them at every turn like a mischievous Puck. Yes, there they came, and over the night he flew, faster than the wind. He flew among the glimmering droplets in the sky, danced on the clouds and the Milky Way. Who could touch him.

Finally, the hounds' cries died away, and he stopped by the lake again. Tonight was a fine night to be alive, the sharp air in his lungs, his feet among the clouds, and his antlers in the stars. The veins in his neck pulsed softly as the memory of the pursuit throbbed through them with the blood. The stag stood by the lakeside, his head held proud and his magnificent antlers aloft. The dogs of the hunt would never catch him. How could they, when he was standing with his feet in the clouds, his antlers embracing the sky? 

~***~

The black dog snarled, snapping and straining at his bonds. How great his surprise when they, all of a sudden, snapped and gave. For a moment, he looked at the straps lying on the ground. The leather was cracked and weakened with dry rot, and here and there, he could see conspicuous marks where it had been gnawed by rodents. 

Not waiting to contemplate further, he dashed off, through the dark woods. Free! He was free! The master was nothing to him now; he was his own master. He howled his elation to the night air, and bared his pearly fangs in a grin when the other dogs didn't answer. They were hunting hounds, lean, gray, and slim, trained to run and chase animals through the wilds for their hunter. He was a dog, built sturdily with bushy black fur, made to roam those wilds on his own. Tonight, he'd been set free to do just that.

Suddenly, a peal rang out. A chorus of barks and calls resounded through the night. The others were on the trail of something. The hunt was on. The dog's pale eyes flashed in the light of the sliver of moon before it retreated behind the clouds. He shook his great, dark, shaggy head. He was alone now and he roamed free about the world, this night world of grass ruffling in the breeze like water, and the great silver lake beyond, rippling like wide plains and grasslands, the movement echoed above by the furling clouds, billowing like his dark coat and his black plumed tail in the wind. The stars were everywhere, studded in the sky, and on the ground, in premature drops of dew that he sniffed. The scents filled his nose, mingling, yet separate, prickling through his awareness. 

The dog sniffed the air again: he smelled another scent on the air. It was in kin to his own, but strange, wilder. It smelled of blood, of snow, and songs sung to the moon on long winter nights.

The wolf was there. It did not see him, too intent on running; from what, he did not know. The dog snarled, bared his teeth. This wolf was a creature of the hunt too. It threatened the very thing he had sworn to protect. Its dreams were of blood too, and pursuit. The wolf saw him. For a while, it gazed into his pale eyes. Then, it turned its back and walked away slowly. It disappeared amid the rustling grass.

_

~**~

_

The rat made his way among the dead, rustling leaves of the forest floor. His beady eyes surveyed all that went on in this subterranean world, and his delicate furled ears gathered every sound made. He liked this form. Rats could always escape from any sort of trouble; they slid through holes and tunnels and tight spaces so easily and could whisk out of sight in a matter of seconds, a flash of pink tail.__

_Neither decree_

_Prohibits him, _

_Lawful as_

_Equilibrium._

No one thought of killing a rat, unless said rat had been at their pantries. And even then, a rat was clever, swift, and hard to pin down. Nothing could catch up with a rat. Nothing. He was safe here, cocooned in the moist darkness of the forest. It was warm and enveloping, like a mother.

_Balking our wit_

_To sound or circumvent,_

_Hate cannot harm_

_A foe so reticent._

His whiskers twitched. What did he smell? He smelled the rich loam of the forest floor, and wood. His long, bald tail swished around him, his beady eyes scrutinized the darkness. What did he hear? He heard a cricket chirp a distance away. He heard a horn pealing no less than half a mile away from the forest, summoning dogs to the hunt. He heard and smelled everything. He saw so well too. As a rat, he could see everything, escaping the notice of everyone, even death itself. And if nothing noticed a rat, then how could anything harm it? Rats are safe. He was safe.

Suddenly, the rat was filled with a nameless fear. A shadow lurked, somewhere in the darkness. Could it be hiding under the next leaf? Or was it an owl? But no. It was not his ears that he heard with, but his mind.

He made himself small where he stood and he gnawed on the leather straps he found there out of nervousness. But still the shadow looked for him. He reassured himself: he was so small; no one could possibly find him. And if no one could find him, no one could hurt him. He was safe.

**_~***~_**

The wolf looked up at the moon, squinting at it. Her pale light cast a pall over everything. It showed everything to be an illusion, and then, an illusion beyond those veils, once you strip them away. The most solid, substantial things were reduced to fleeting glimpses of a Flying Dutchman, the most fundamental laws of the world to bones and dust. Nothing remained in this ghost-light, this moonlight that turned everything into phantoms. 

_The moon was but a chin of gold _

_      A night or two ago,_

_And now she turns her perfect face_

_                     Upon the world below._

He hated that moon. It had always sought something from him, he knew not what. Something nameless always followed him, wherever he went. It followed him as the moon did, running on legs as slender and swift as the doe's, as silently as a hunting tiger, her footfalls as light as the wind's breath ruffling through his coarse, hoarfrost-gray fur. It never tired, never slowed.

Then, a horn sounded, and baying filled the air. Something else was chasing him, something tangible and visible. The hounds called, rallied to the hunt. They chased a stag through the forest, and they chased the wolf too, for his fur to spread on the dirt floor for a rug. He would have liked to run by the stag, fight with him, but they chased him away. He ran, ran for his life.

Finally, he came to open space, and the hounds were gone. He walked on, tired. He had outrun the hounds, and even the shadow seemed to be gone temporarily. Just as he was about to slow and stop, however, a low snarl sounded. He turned to find a black dog crouching in the grass, its hackles up, pearly fangs bared. A black dog, his cousin, his brother. But nothing remained in this ghost-light. Even brothers turned on one another. 

Reluctantly, he turned and loped away through the tall grass. 

**~***~**

The moon moved out from behind her cloud, unveiling herself. She was round now. She caught sight of the proud stag standing beneath her, this mortal who stood transfixed, daring to gaze upon her full brightness. She sent a shaft of moonlight down to him, a silver bolt from the velvet sky. It struck him in the very heart. 

The stag reared. As the moonlight washed over him and drenched him, so hit a nameless sense of anxiety, of dread. Suddenly, he became disturbingly aware of just how exposed he was, how alone. He sensed a threatening darkness, some nameless shadow by his side. He dashed off, but wherever he turned, there it followed him. 

Then, like that, they were there. They surrounded him. He heeled, and then realized that these dogs were tethered, though they strained and snapped at him. Not one to miss an opportunity to taunt these hounds, he walked within their sight, his head proud and high with its antlers, then turned his back on them, ready to make his way to a deeper part of the forest. The dogs went silent as he walked past. 

Then, he heard the snap, as straps weakened by age and the gnawing of rodents gave way. He heard the collective howl as the dogs set upon him. 

He ran. He leaped and bounded like a creature gone mad, lashed out with his hooves. Here and there, he heard dogs yelp, draw back or else receive the knife-sharp hoof in their throats, scattering dark droplets behind them in the air, but they kept coming, pulled onward by the bittersweet taste of his panic, his fear scent. 

_A wounded deer leaps highest,_

_I've heard the hunter tell;_

_'Tis but the ecstasy of death_

_And then the brake is still…_

Finally, he felt long fangs pierce his throat. He sank to the ground, bowed his magnificent head, as the red blood spurted from the wounds and soaked the ground. It flowed over the black mud in shining red rivulets, pooled in the crescent hoofprint, and trickled into the water, blossoming in crimson tendrils. Next to them, the moon beamed innocently as a scarlet shadow started to steal softly over its face.__

~***~

_There came a wind like a bugle;_

_It quivered through the grass,_

_And a green chill upon the heat so ominous did pass…_

Though the wolf was gone, he still felt restless and uneasy as the wind blew. He walked a distance, then broke into a quick lope through the grass. He ran and ran, trying to outrun what, he didn't know, but he could not. Wherever he turned, there it was. He was in the dark forest by the time he stopped running. 

A cry pierced the silence and gloom in the forest. The dog raised his head, startled. It was not the joyous cry that summoned dogs to the hunt, but a cry of despair, a death-cry. And suddenly, it hit him. The dark shadow was his own guilt, his knowledge. He was built sturdy, black, and unmoving: not to roam, but to guard. He was a guard dog, and he had abandoned his post.

Suddenly, a snarl sounded in his ear. He spun around to find himself surrounded by lean, gray hunting hounds. They ringed him, closed in on him, their teeth bared. Then, one lunged.

The black dog fought viciously. He struck out with his giant paws, bit with his sharp teeth. Finally, there was a momentary lull, and he took advantage of the opportunity to dash away, his fur soaked all over with blood, the taste of it in his mouth. He ran, ran to where he knew not. 

Suddenly, he stopped. There lay a stag, by the lakeside. The long legs were splayed out in awkward directions, and the blood shone. The dog gazed upon the body. The taste of blood was still fresh in his mouth, and it dripped from him, his fur, his mouth, as he looked. Had he done this? Where had all this blood come from?

A wind ruffled the surface of the lake. He looked, and found himself there, not as a hunting dog, a wild dog, or a guard dog. He was all of them, and the dark shadow by his side was there too. It was his mistress, the one that commanded him in the hunt as he sent the doomed to their end, accompanied him as he guided the dead on their journey, and the one that stood by him as he received them to their final resting place. It was she that he had been attempting to escape, she that he had been trying to outrun, and she that he had finally come back to, however unwillingly.

He limped forward, towards the carcass, and suddenly collapsed, as the wounds took their effect on him. He felt the leash slip over his head, yet again. He heard the baying of hunting hounds in the distance as he watched a red shadow slip over the moon.

_As he, defeated, dying,_

_On whose forbidden ear_

_The distant strains of triumph_

_Break, agonized and clear._

_~**~_

The rat twitched his nose and watched. The dark shadow came closer and closer. It would catch him! He chewed on the leather straps all the more frantically in his anxiety.

_The rat is the concisest tenant._

_He pays no rent,—_

_Repudiates the obligation_

_On schemes intent._

He watched the shadow swoop. Closer and closer it came. He chewed more frantically.

Suddenly, the moon came out from behind the clouds. A beam of light pierced the rustling leaves of the canopy, illuminating the forest. It landed straight on the rat, frozen stock still on the log.

The rat bolted, but there was nowhere to escape, nowhere to hide. Everywhere, the light shone, painfully bright, revealing. Like a raptor, his predator focused in on the movement, the rustling of the leaves. With a single movement of her hand, the rat was trapped. He clawed, flailed, squealing, but to no avail. He was trapped. He had nowhere to go, to escape.

**_

~***~

_**

The wolf looked back. A cry sounded, a death cry. He recognized it, and yet, didn't want to. It was strange to him, but the wolf recognized it. The hunt, the night, the sounds of death and the songs of a wildness beyond anything he'd consciously known, it was all in him, his blood. He knew the sound, knew it as part of his very being, and yet, didn't want to.

A tall, proud figure crumpled by the lake, killed by hounds. He watched as a black dog came to the bank, to the carcass. Not to feed, but to wonder. He watched as the leash slipped over the dark head, and it bowed, went down on its knees. The wolf was left all alone, gazing upon this scene, and the now dark moon hanging above it.

He looked up. The moon was not round anymore, but it wasn't waning. A scarlet shadow was seeping over it. The moonlight wasn't so unnerving now, not so ghostly. It took on a tinge of blood, casting a reddish light over all. Now he was able to see. Now he knew. He'd known all along that this night would someday happen… but he only realized that now. This was the nightmare that had haunted him, the dream that his elemental wisdom had known all along. 

_Suddenly, there she stood before him. The shadow. She had come for him too. But why should he let her take him? He didn't want to go. _

_The wolf turned, and glided away over the moor. She did not pursue him. _

_"You defy me," muttered the woman softly, watching him. "You will not be taken easily. Yes, you, wolf, are worth the while to hunt." Her silver bow and her half-moon hunting knife gleamed as the woman unwound the blood-stained veil from her hair and white-skinned face.  _

_"But mark my words," she said. "This is not the end. For the end comes for all, and not even the best can outrun their fate."_

 **__**

**_The woman walked to a corner, illuminated by the light of her still-glowing web, and picked up a scepter with a golden pomegranate adorning its top. She fingered a knotted cord that was strung about her slender neck._**

**_"Two more due, tonight," she said softly._**

~~*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*~~ 

A/N: In case you didn't notice, the myth was that of Artemis (Diana to some) and Actaeon. Hint: look in Prongsie's second bit to see the connection to Actaeon. (You do know who Prongs is, don't you?) Who was the weird lady? She was the triple deity: Artemis/Hecate/Persephone (Proserpina, to the Romans, but I've always used the Greek names).

I've heard of Hecate's animal being a black dog, but I could be wrong. I also could be wrong about the whole guide-of-the-dead-to-the-underworld bit (I think Hermes is supposed to have that role) and the triad (some sources have it as Demeter /Hecate/Persephone). Unfortunately, as my access to (credible) resources about this goddess is limited, it was rather hard to do any checks on this. Any more information would be greatly appreciated.

Since this is the first halfway-decent piece (for being cliché and half-baked, that is) I've cranked up in my entire career as a writer, I feel as though I should make additional acknowledgements. Special thanks to:

Utsusemi, FF.net writer, an RL friend, and wonderful co-beta reader. She's done a great deal for me in helping me improve my writing. Check out her work!

Semiramis, another RL friend and FF.net writer. Discusses mythology and nitpicks with me, and to this, I partly owe some of my knowledge on the subject. 

morrigan: Though I don't know her at all personally, I have read her works, and they inspired me, to some extent; "Dream On" and "The Other Side" are particularly breathtaking (the latter inspired me, partly, to write this fic). 


End file.
